Warning: Mentions of blood, injuries and pain in a slighlty explicit way , nothing outside of the fantasy-violence label

 Mortigus stopped at the river he’d visited so many times already during his years of forest life. The glistening water was particularly tranquil, with few flies darting on the clear surface. Mortigus looked around, noticing that his neighbours were missing: a small wolf family that would drink from the river on afternoons like this one. At first he was scared to approach them, but over the years Mortigus was able to peacefully coexist with them. He was no longer made of flesh after all, or his appearance was far removed from that of a flesh being. Nonetheless, the wolf pack grew to realise he was no meal nor threat. He did feel a twinge of guilt for ignoring his parents' warnings about such creatures, though it was hard to tell which rules still applied to him in his current form. But on that day, the riverbank was uncanily empty, leaving Mortigus alone with just the water critters. A green, blurry eye was glaring at Mortifus from on top of the water veil. In its stare resided confusion and discontent, like a stranger coming too close to him. Mortigus was a tiresome sight for this eye—something tedious, beyond any tolerance, polluting his view yet again. Living like this for so long, yet this eye’s stare still followed Mortigus wherever there was a reflection. How would one find such resentment just by looking at himself? A projection of others’ perception of him, an accumulation of all the fear Mortigus had for the reactions of people to his form. He imagined a hypothetical hatred that he attributed solely to the beasts slain in his bedtime stories. The doctors treated him inhumanely, yet what he had sensed from them wasn't quite hatred; it was more akin to a chilling indifference, a dispassionate disregard for both his freedom and his suffering, like a sacrifice towards a goal unknown.

 This eye held a glimmer of the past inside it, as Mortigus could tell this was not the first time he bore such a stare, maybe not directed at himself but at someone else. Back in his village, when he had been just a little past six years old, there was one kid whose name he could not remember anymore. When he was younger, Mortigus used to play with a boy who always kept part of his face hidden beneath a headscarf. Neither Mortigus nor his parents gave much thought to it until one day, when the boy stumbled in the road during play, his scarf slippling down. Mortigus crouched down to help him, trying to see if the poor boy had any signs of bleeding on his forehead. As Mortigus reached out, the boy suddenly panicked, quickly grabbing the scarf to cover back his forehead. But in the brief moment before it was concealed again, Mortigus caught a fleeting glimpse of something unusual—a third eye, hidden beneath the fabric. Mortigus’ expression—one of confusion and perhaps even a flicker of aversion—as an ignorant kid that couldn’t interpret this bizarre sight. The kid was shaking, anxiously looking around. As disheartened by Mortigus’ expression as he was, he pleaded with Mortigus to keep it a secret, explaining that his parents would be furious if anyone saw him without his headscarf. Mortigus had made a promise, though, in truth, he couldn't quite remember if he had ever truly kept it. Such a young child registering the true possible consequences of such a trivial little secret, he preferred not kidding himself. After that day, the boy became a rare presence in Mortigus' life, slowly fading away until his family eventually moved to a distant part of the village. Mortigus never saw him again. It was prejudice that the boy and his family feared—and now Mortigus had grown to fear the same. He despised his own appearance, but he wasn’t sure if it was because he genuinely disliked what he had become or because he feared the hatred others might show him. Where did his own perception of himself end and the judgement of others begin? Whose gaze would fill the reflection of his life?

  The glimmer of the water had started to dwindle as the sun’s descent signalled the approach of evening. Small ripples finally broke the perceiving eyes of the river, intense splashes shattering the gentle murmur of the river. Mortigus jerked his head up, alarmed. A pillar of thick fur and rippling muscle was barreling through the riverbed, its fierce gaze locking onto him. A spark of terror shot from his head to his legs, urging his body to flee before panic could paralyse him. With the forest at his back, Mortigus bolted for the treeline, the beast charging after him like a storm rolling in. He sprinted through the trees, ducking under branches and catching scratches along the way. Fear sharpened his focus, but the menacing growls and laboured breathing behind him were closing in relentlessly. The bear tore through the underbrush, indifferent to the snapping branches in its path. This wasn’t a mere territorial chase—its hunger was evident. Bears were described by Mortigus’ mother as omnivorous, opportunists that didn’t pass up fruits and mushrooms, but in this moment, Mortigus realised with dread that he might be the most desperate prey in the woods.

 As the boy gained a bit of distance thanks to the clumped-together trees, he jumped onto an oak, clinging to the first branch his hand could reach. Mortigus wasn’t able to climb too far up until the bear crashed vehemently into the tree, shaking it whole. Then, with just a few shakes of its head, the beast started clawing at the oak’s trunk, trying to climb but to little success. Mortigus barely managed to scramble onto a higher branch, the tree trembling violently under the bear’s assault. From his precarious perch, he finally dared to glance down, taking in the full form of the beast, with its silhouette now clear beyond the haze of his fear. It was not an encouraging sight, as the beast with broad shoulders was almost the size of a horse. Its roars and grunts continued as it chipped away at the bark with its claws. Mortigus weighed the necessity of spending the night in the tree, though the bear's persistent snarls and clawing made it a daunting prospect. Just as he settled into this uneasy plan, the branch groaned ominously under him, betraying his weight. With a heart-stopping crack, it snapped, sending Mortigus tumbling down. He barely managed to wind back on his feet like a coiled spring, wincing from a bruised knee. As he regained his footing, a strident shadow was already looming over him. 

 Like a thunderstrike, five knives drove into Mortigus’ shoulder, piercing it with little effort. The claws put their pressure onto the shoulder, an incredible force driving into the point connecting Mortigus’ arm to his torso. Like ropes being pulled beyond their limits, the fibres in his arm started to give up, sending needles of shock to his head. His tendons were riddled with spasms, and a clear liquid faintly began dripping from the severed fibres. In the span of a second, his enlarged eye witnessed his arm being ripped apart, hanging onto his shoulder by only a thread. The bear’s jaws followed, grabbing onto the elbow of the ruined arm, though barely any pain could even be felt anymore. In his desperation, Mortigus swung his body away, and as the bear didn’t falter and kept its gripped fangs onto the arm, Mortigus’ limb was completely removed, leaving only an exposed, shredded wound.A scream tore from his throat as he stumbled, desperately trying to escape. The bear, unsatisfied with merely claiming an arm, discarded it from its maw and readied itself to charge again at the mushroom creature, who was now faltering and struggling to regain his footing in a frantic bid for his life. To Mortigus’ luck, he didn’t seem to be losing much blood, or the equivalent of what this mushroom body produced, but he couldn’t ignore the pain either. The beast was already next to him before he could realise it, its front claw in full swing, ready to pummel him into the ground. Mortigus already fell onto the grass right under the claw, terrified, moments away from death, his remaining right arm implanted into the damp soil. Mortigus felt his emotions, blood, and breath leave his body from head to toe, entering the ground below. And the ground breathed back, and like a splash of blood, a wall of mushrooms rose from the soil, desperately pushing away the bear’s arm. The beast flinched for a second, this sudden attack briefly interrupting its blind hunt and its instincts. Mortigus was none the wiser about the sorcery that transpired from his right hand. Amidst the agonising pain digging its spikes into his left shoulder, a new sensation of swelling began to spread in his right arm. With each flex of his muscles, spores floated into the air, and an unsought instinct resurfaced from an unfathomable pit in his soul. This instinct told him to push his will into the ground yet again, to take control of the mushrooms he gave life to. Awakening from his daze, the bear jumped to the side, around the mushroom wall, and attempted to clench its jaw at Mortigus’ remaining arm. Yet again, mushrooms spurred with force, pushing the bear back. As it tried to cut them down, more mushroom caps emerged, surrounding Mortigus like a wall. Mortigus continued to channel his will into the same mushrooms, urging them to grow and respond to his desperate plea. After more of its swings were repelled, the bear backed off a little, continuing to roar in an intimidation attempt. In truth, the beast had grown wary, unsettled by the strange phenomenon unfolding before it. The bear hesitated for a moment before mustering the nerve to charge at the wall of mushrooms, crashing through the fungal barrier—only to find nothing beyond it. Confused, it sniffed the air. But as it lifted its snout, an irritating cloud of spores flew in, causing the bear to recoil in discomfort. The bear scratched at its nose, its eyes irritated and disoriented. After a few more disgruntled huffs, the bear turned its attention to the discarded arm, seizing it in its jaws before retreating swiftly toward the direction of the river.

  From behind the mushroom wall, Mortigus cautiously emerged. His chest tightened as he watched in disbelief, the bear's silhouette shrinking into the distance until it finally dissolved into the shadows of the forest. His right hand trembled, a dull ache pulsing from his forearm to his fingertips, remnants of the struggle lingering like fading echoes. But this feeling meant he was still alive, drowning out even the aching shock in his left shoulder. 

  Once the bear disappeared completely from the horizon, Mortigus, exhausted as he was, dragged his weary feet back toward the familiar sinkhole, navigating the encroaching darkness purely by memory. Upon reaching his makeshift home, he pushed his fingers into the ground. He stared as the ground remained silent and motionless. His adrenaline was giving out, and he began to question the phenomenon he just experienced against the bear moments ago. A second and a third time he would sink his hand into the soil, even trying to soak it in his blood, but to little effect. One last deep breath, one last try, he plunged into the ground and begged, giving form to a mushroom wall. This time, however, perhaps due to his consciousness fading or his weakening will, the mushrooms took several minutes to grow to a considerable size. As soon as he was done, Mortigus let his legs loose as he collapsed inside his home, now covered by a layer of mushy camouflage.

  By morning, Mortigus awoke to find the wound on his shoulder already sealed into a scar, and his knee nearly fully healed. Though the swollen lump at his shoulder throbbed painfully when touched, it was far less excruciating than one would expect from the loss of an entire limb, and in such a violent manner. Mortigus stood up, feeling unbalanced. After scouting the area for signs of other beasts, he somewhat regained his sense of safety. The only set of marks matching the beast’s were made during yesterday’s hunt, so he could assume it would be unlikely for it to cross the river into this forest side for a good while. As he sank onto a nearby stump, his trembling hand clutched the scarred remains of his left shoulder. "I survived. I’m still here. I go on... I keep living,” he repeated again and again and again.

  In the coming days, Mortigus grew to realise that relying entirely on his right arm turned even the simplest tasks into trials. Each awkward movement, every misstep, seemed exaggerated. The overburdened limb throbbed with fatigue, becoming yet another source of torment, adding to the quiet symphony of pain that had settled into his body. Mortigus noticed his arm began to heal, forming a pseudo-bone that almost reached where his elbow was supposed to be. Notch by notch, in another few days, all that was missing now was his fingers, as up to his wrist his arm healed miraculously. This body was clearly capable of regenerating beyond any human expectations; perhaps this was the goal of the doctors all along? Was there a purpose beyond attempting to create a more resilient organism? The few experiments he got the displeasure to be part of involved cutting small parts of his tissue, but he never acknowledged how fast he recovered from the sampling procedure. If he had stayed there longer, who knows what tests awaited? The thought almost caused him to vomit. Nonetheless, Mortigus brought his mind back to the present. He was curious if this applied to all his limbs and organs, if he could truly heal from anything, but testing this would be rather reckless and certainly not void of pain. After he regained his fingers, he was amazed to feel their sensation recovering gradually, clutching his fist, wiggling them one by one, and squeezing berries in his fingertips. Such things he took for granted before, he was now fortunate to have them again.

 Little time passed, and Mortigus transitioned to testing how long cuts and bruises would take to heal, and with each try, they would heal back up slightly faster than before. To think he could train this body in this way was sickening but intriguing. In time, he grew weary of the constant self-inflicted wounds and turned his attention to the more mysterious outcome of his near-death encounter—the spontaneous emergence of mushrooms under his control. To better his odds to survive, he needed to unravel the secrets of this strange power and discover its true potential.